Chapter One
They say that love runs deep. After a particularly cold and snowy winter, spring had made its return to our little hamlet, Ashland, Oregon, where the first blooms were pushing up through the ground, reminding us that even in the midst of winter’s deep slumber, magic was bubbling beneath the surface. Just like love. Sometimes you couldn’t see it, but it was always there, pulsing through our veins, underneath the top layer of our skin. The depth of my love for my hometown had only grown since my once estranged husband, Carlos, had decided to plant roots in Ashland with me. We had spent the last blissful months creating new routines together: leisurely Sunday mornings savoring French press on our back deck while being serenaded by cooing doves and flittering finches; Carlos tending to the vines and our ever-growing clientele at our organic winery, Uva; and more than anything else, curling up in his arms every night knowing that we were a team—we were in this together. I couldn’t believe how seamlessly he had adapted to life on land.
Our first years of marriage had taken us far from Ashland’s shores, from one exotic port to the next. We had traversed the globe, visiting crowded cities and vacant gold sand beaches. That life had been filled with adventure and a sense of wanderlust, but it had also been lonely. Despite being constantly surrounded by groups of happy passengers on the Amour of the Seas, where we both worked as chefs, my time at sea had been solitary. It wasn’t until I had come home to Ashland that I realized quite how isolated my lifestyle had been on the boutique cruise ship. That had changed dramatically since immersing myself in the day-to-day operations of running our family bakeshop, Torte.
Ashland might be small in size, but it was mighty in its ability to draw everyone in and capture us under her spell. That could be due to the fact that the Oregon Shakespeare Festival’s theater campus was in the middle of town. The artistic community was the lifeblood of Ashland, attracting actors, musicians, playwrights, and artists who worked in every medium to our remote corner of southern Oregon. Some of Ashland’s charm could also be attributed to the stunning landscapes that swept out in every direction through the surrounding valley. Flaxen rolling hills, dense old-growth forests, and a bevy of wildlife hedged in the plaza, which resembled an Elizabethan village. Visitors often commented that it looked as if every shop and storefront had been plucked straight from the pages of a Shakespearean manuscript.
I couldn’t argue with that analogy. After traveling the world, I knew without a doubt that I was incredibly lucky to live in this place that had become such a part of me. It was hard to imagine my old life, and I didn’t let a day go by without pausing in gratitude for the abundance of good things that had come with deciding to make Ashland my permanent home again.
That thought ran through my mind as I assembled ingredients for my first bake of the morning. I had arrived early at Torte, our family bakeshop, before the rest of my staff. Having the commercial kitchen to myself for an hour was my favorite way to start the day. It gave me time to center myself before the rush of customers, the whirl of mixers, the pulse of coffee beans in the grinder, and being pulled a thousand different directions throughout the day as my team whipped up the most delectable sweet and savory pastries in the Rogue Valley. Not that I was biased or anything.
I’m sure every small business owner can relate to the inordinate amount of work it took to keep our shops thriving. I never minded having a lengthy task list. I preferred having multiple projects on the docket and enjoyed that I never knew what the day might bring. One day we might be baking dozens upon dozens of buttercream-and-jam-filled macarons. The next we might be piping elaborate Swiss buttercream roses on a tiered wedding cake. It wasn’t just the bakeshop that kept me on my toes either. I also helped Carlos manage Uva, our small vineyard outside of town. Mainly I focused on vendor relationships and staffing for the tasting room. As if that wasn’t enough on our plate, we had recently expanded with a seasonal ice cream shop, Scoops, that we were in the process of prepping to reopen with the return of spring weather.
This morning my first project was recipe testing for a special client. I tied on a cheery red Torte apron with our teal blue filigree logo—a single-layer torte. My parents had opened the bakeshop when I was young. They had picked our signature royal colors as an homage to the Bard. Touches of Shakespeare were evident throughout the two-story space. Upstairs we kept a rotating quote on our chalkboard menu, usually something by William Shakes himself, but we also liked to toss in modern poetry and the occasional meme. This week’s quote was a nod to love: “Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom.”
The first floor of the bakeshop housed our espresso and pastry counter and a collection of cozy seating in front of large windows that offered our guests a firsthand view of the bustling plaza. The red and teal theme continued in the corrugated metal wainscoting. There were stacks of books, games, and buckets of chalk for our vanilla steamer customers, who happily entertained themselves coloring on the base of the chalkboard menu while their parents and grandparents sipped cappuccinos and noshed on lemon tarts.
An expansion a few years ago had allowed us to take over the basement space as well. We had moved our baking operations downstairs, which had dramatically improved our kitchen square footage. The new kitchen was bright and light, with marble countertops, a distressed bar, wood laminate flooring, and baking zones. The open-concept kitchen had been a labor of love for Mom and me. We had made every decision, down to where to position light switches and outlets. Our goal was to create a kitchen that had good, natural flow. I think we had achieved that with a mixing zone featuring neat rows of our workhorse mixers and a decorating zone with bright overhead lighting and pull-out drawers for tools, sparkling sugars, and sprinkles.
The pièce de résistance, though, was the massive built-in wood-fired oven that we had unearthed in the construction process. The fireplace took up nearly half of the far brick wall. That area was deemed the bread zone. Huge stainless steel rolling carts flanked the fireplace. Soon loaves of rising bread would wait on the carts for their turn in the oven. We could feed two birds with one scone, since there was no need to proof the bread in a traditional oven. The heat radiating off the bricks did the work for us.
The unique wood oven was always a conversation starter with our guests. Customers who enjoyed their coffee and breakfast downstairs on the couches and chairs adjacent to the kitchen loved the earthy vibe and heavenly aroma of applewood burning in the oven. My team and I loved it for that and also because baking rustic breads and hand pies in the pizza oven elevated flavor profiles and added a nice touch of char to our products.
I had already added a fresh bundle of applewood to the oven and made a pot of strong coffee, so I turned my attention to my notes for our special client, who happened to be a very dear old friend—Thomas Adams.
Thomas and I had known each other since childhood. We dated in high school but then went our separate ways. He had stayed in Ashland to attend Southern Oregon University and train to be a police officer, while I ventured to New York for culinary school. Our paths had crossed again when I returned home. At first there had been a few awkward moments while we tried to figure out where we stood with each other. Fortunately we had landed on friendship. As proof that things always work out the way they’re meant to, Thomas had gotten engaged to a fellow detective, Kerry, and Torte was catering the wedding.
Detective Kerry was much more private than Thomas. In fact, even after I’d known her for a few years, she had rarely divulged anything about her personal life or past. Maybe that was why they were a good match. Their personalities were in balance. Thomas was gregarious and outgoing with a low-key personality. Having grown up in Ashland, he knew everyone in town by name. His mom owned A Rose by Any Other Name, the flower shop next door. Kerry kept things close to her chest, but lately I felt like I was starting to see through some of the tiny cracks in her external armor. We had been spending quite a bit of time together with wedding preparations, and one thing that I had come to appreciate about her was her ability to hold space for people when they were in the throes of crisis.
I couldn’t imagine the things she must have seen in her line of work. I had come to realize that she used her firm boundaries as a coping mechanism the same way Thomas used his lighthearted approach when it came to serving the community.
Kerry had wanted a simple courthouse wedding, but Thomas was a big dreamer with visions of inviting the entire town to their nuptials. If left to his own devices, he might have sent out invitations to everyone in the Rogue Valley. But after some negotiating (a skill every married couple needed to learn to master—myself included), they had landed on a picnic wedding in Ashland’s crown jewel, Lithia Park. Janet, Thomas’s mom, and my mom had been sewing pretty patchwork-quilt picnic blankets for each of the guests. The invitations had requested that everyone dress in spring pastels. Thomas and Kerry were to be married by local judge Mimi Barbarelli at the outdoor band shell the last weekend in May. The park would already be a symphony of spring blooms, yet in addition to nature’s bounty, Janet was arranging rows and rows of flower garlands to drape across the band shell. We would hang pale pink, yellow, and blue paper globes from waxy oak trees. Torte was catering picnic boxes for each of the guests, along with the wedding cake, a groom’s cake, and an assortment of Thomas and Kerry’s favorite donuts.
Instead of a traditional ceremony and reception, they intended to exchange vows and then hand the entertainment over to my bestie, Lance, the artistic director at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, who had sketched out grand visions of romantic sonnets and select pieces of Shakespeare’s works to be performed by actors from the company, followed by an aerial spectacular with Curtain Climbers Dance Company. The ethereal dance in motion would include silks, hammocks, and a trapeze, and combine elements of yoga, gymnastics, and dance. He had wanted to cap the night with a full orchestra.
“Dearest,” Lance had said to Kerry at our last meeting, when she had rebutted the idea of hiring the Rogue Symphony in addition to everything else. “Why have a beautiful band shell without actually utilizing it? Trust me, weddings require dancing. After your love and Torte’s delectable picnic spreads have satiated everyone, Mother Nature will dim the lights, and we’ll ask everyone to roll up their blankets and get to their feet to spend an evening under the stars tripping the light fantastic.”
“Tripping the light fantastic?” Thomas had scrunched his face. “Who says that?”
“Uh, moi.” Lance had tapped his chest and continued on with his grandiose plans for their wedding.
We had all chuckled. Everyone in the room knew that Lance meant well, and that there was no arguing with him once he set his sights on a “vision.” In truth, I think Kerry appreciated not having to sweat any of the details. Torte was taking care of the food, Janet was overseeing decorations, and Lance would ensure that this wedding was the talk of town for years to come, so Thomas and Kerry simply needed to show up and enjoy themselves. Although Kerry did win the battle of the bands, putting her foot down on hiring the Rogue Symphony and opting for a local jazz trio instead.
Coming up with the perfect wedding menu had proved more challenging than I expected. I thumbed through my notebook until I landed on the list of potential recipes for the picnic boxes and forced myself to concentrate.
I wanted to make sure the menu was delicious and reflective of the celebratory nature of a wedding but also included food that guests could actually eat while sitting on blankets in the park. Anything that required cutting was out. As was anything that needed to be kept warm. Nor did we want to serve the wedding guests food that was messy or drippy and risk spills down the front of cocktail dresses and expensive suits.
We had been experimenting with layered sandwiches and a variety of pastas and green salads. The last few weeks we had taken to crowdsourcing the potential wedding menu. Everything we tested got shared with Torte customers upstairs, and I had been keeping copious notes on customers’ feedback.
Today I wanted to try a new combination for a club sandwich made on our rustic bread, along with Mom’s famous potato salad. But first, I was going to focus on something sweet—a fruit salsa with cinnamon crisps for dipping. They might work nicely as an appetizer in the picnic boxes, and even if they were too messy for the reception, we could feature them on the specials board at Torte.
To start, I brushed hand-rolled tortillas with melted butter infused with fresh orange and lemon zest. Then I sprinkled them liberally with a mixture of cinnamon and vanilla sugar with the faintest hint of cardamom. Once I dusted them completely with the sugary spice, I slid them into the wood-fired oven to crisp. While they toasted, I gathered all of the fresh fruit included in our weekly deliveries and began chopping apples and pears. I tossed them in a large bowl with fresh lime and more lemon and orange juice. Next I added raspberries, halved cherries and grapes, strawberries, pineapple chunks, and kiwi slices. The colorful fruit certainly looked appetizing. I mixed in a jar of our homemade marmalade and a splash of coconut extract. Soon the kitchen smelled of citrus and cinnamon, one of my favorite combinations. I removed the crisped tortillas from the oven and broke them into large chip-like pieces. I dipped one into the fruit salsa. My taste buds sang with delight at the melody of fruit flavors, which mingled with the sweet and spicy chips.
This was a winner in my book. I couldn’t wait to share it with the team and get their thoughts. With one potential picnic recipe down, I turned my attention to a new spin on a club sandwich. I began by cutting our rustic seven-grain bread into thick slices. I arranged the bread on an oven-safe tray and brushed each slice with olive oil infused with rosemary. The bread would toast just long enough to crisp up. The club sandwich was a classic and something that pleased most palates. For the wedding boxes, I wanted to elevate it with additions of avocado mayo, basil pesto, and sun-dried tomato jam smothered between layers of shaved ham, herbed turkey, bacon, Swiss, heirloom tomatoes, and crisp romaine lettuce. The key would be using the ingredients to hold the sandwiches together.
I found my rhythm spreading creamy mayo and pesto on the toasted bread and building each layer. Once my sandwiches were complete, I used a sharp knife to cut them into four triangles and secured them with fancy toothpicks. If nothing else, the sandwiches certainly looked festive and party-worthy.
To complete the tasting meal, I grabbed chilled boiled eggs and Yukon gold potatoes from the walk-in for Mom’s picnic potato salad. The running joke in our family had been that Mom got invited to events and gatherings not for her winning personality but for this dish. For years she had stayed tight-lipped about the secret ingredient in her summer salad, but since she had begun to scale back, she had passed it on to me in order to continue the tradition.
I cut the soft potatoes into small squares, keeping the skins on. Then I chopped the hard-boiled eggs and tossed them together in a large mixing bowl. I added a generous amount of mayo, pepper, salt, celery seed, and a touch of powdered mustard. Next came bread-and-butter pickles, and finally the super-secret ingredient—pickle juice. My mouth watered as I mixed everything and plated my sample meal with a scoop of the potato salad, a slice of club sandwich, a handful of cinnamon chips, and a ramekin of fruit salsa.
This just might be the winner, I thought as I appraised my work. Now I needed taste testers.
As if on cue, the basement door opened and Andy, Torte’s resident barista, walked in.
“Morning, boss. What’s cooking?” Andy waved his hand under his nose. “I smell cinnamon.”
“Good nose.” I waited for him to take off his coat and come into the kitchen.
Andy was in his early twenties with a muscular build, boyish face, and a most affable personality that endeared him to everyone. He had dropped out of college to pursue his dream of becoming a coffee roaster, and he was well on his way to succeeding. Last summer he had taken first place at the West Coast Barista Cup, which had given him serious credibility amongst coffee aficionados and had garnered him an adoring fan club (headed by Bethany, one of our pastry designers). Instead of using his winnings from the competition to take off on a ski trip, Andy had invested it in a small roasting machine that he had set up in his grandmother’s garage. Torte was the beneficiary of Andy’s foray into coffee roasting. He had been bringing in his small-batch organic roasts to share with staff and our customers. They had become wildly popular. So much so that I had told Andy last week he was going to have to upgrade his roasting equipment to keep up with demand.
“What do you have for us today?” I asked as he approached the island carrying a stack of containers. Every container was labeled with masking tape with notes on the roast’s flavor profile.
“Get ready to be blown away by my newest roast.” He lifted the lid on the top container and held the beans just under my nose so that I could get a whiff of the aroma.
I breathed in the scent of caramelized honey and brown sugar with a finish of coconut and blackberries. “That smells amazing. I’m blown away.”
Copyright © 2022 by Katherine Dyer-Seeley
